


Once more into the abyss

by Allemande



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Yet another literary analogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:11:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allemande/pseuds/Allemande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She had absolutely symmetric features and was very well-dressed, Garak noted: good quality material, excellent sense of colour. He was surprised to find himself detesting her at once."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once more into the abyss

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Noch einmal stürmt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/832153) by [Allemande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allemande/pseuds/Allemande)



> I originally wrote this for [The presumption of innocence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/782452/chapters/1474501) but it didn't fit the tone (bit too dark), so I turned it into a separate story.

“I just don’t see,” said Julian Bashir, “how a society can be ‘free and equal’ when its political system is based on blind obedience.”  
  
They were strolling along the upper level of the promenade, discussing politics (and, intermediately, fashion, whenever someone walked by who offended Garak’s tastes). The doctor sometimes picked Garak up from work these days; they would walk all over the station, not really knowing where they were going, sometimes ending up at Quark’s, sometimes at dinner.  
  
“It’s not a question of blind obedience, it’s a question of principle.” Garak enjoyed holding this monologue very much, even more so now that he knew how infuriating it must be for Bashir to hear people repeating themselves. “If there is not a fundamental belief that those in power generally make the right decisions, then there is no state, at least none that has a true chance of enforcing laws and commanding authority.”  
  
 “Yes, yes, you’ve told me all of this before, and you know you have,” sighed the doctor, and Garak smiled to himself. “I usually reply that I understand the appeal of a strict hierarchy (I am a member of Starfleet, after all) but that in my opinion the democratic approach – oh hello, look at her, you’ll like that.“ He discreetly pointed at a woman downstairs wearing a colour combination that he seemed to know Garak would find odious.  
  
“Eurgh,” Garak obligingly commented, and Bashir laughed.  
  
“You are really very severe, you know.”  
  
“Well, somebody has to be, otherwise everyone would run around looking like President Terrliam.”  
  
Bashir chuckled. He knew that the current president of Pythron V was Garak’s favourite example of a fashion disaster.  
  
In fact, and the thought hit Garak suddenly as frightening thoughts sometimes did, Bashir knew an alarming number of things about him by now.  
  
For many years, he had held the doctor at arm’s length, feeding him a tiny true fact here, a big lie there, and using him mainly as an amusing distraction. Then his implant had been removed, and he found himself depending on this distraction more and more. There had never been any real danger for him, or so he had told himself; not while there was still hope that he may one day be reinstated at his father’s side.  
  
Then Tain had died, and with him all of Garak’s hopes of being able to serve Cardassia in a useful capacity.  
  
And he had found himself starting to seek out the doctor’s company, and as he did so, to appreciate him more and more. It was actually surprising how much he had missed during the first few years. The doctor may be indoctrinated by Federation values, have a terrible fashion sense and a sentimental approach to literature, but he was also clever, funny and charming in his own unique way.  
  
Still, for the most part, Garak managed to ignore the little warning voice that whispered in his head whenever he was with Bashir.  
  
“So what are you doing later tonight?” Bashir called him out of his reverie. When Garak shrugged, he continued, “I thought we might try out that new Vulcan place that opened last week, if you’re free.”  
  
Garak smiled. “That sounds –”  
  
“Julian?”  
  
They turned around, and Garak heard Bashir gasp audibly.  
  
A petite human around Bashir’s age stood in front of them, brown hair in a tight knot behind her head, a bag slung over her shoulder and that look on her face that said ‘I’ve just arrived on the station and I’m a bit overwhelmed’. She had absolutely symmetric features and was very well-dressed, Garak noted: good quality material, excellent sense of colour.  
  
He was surprised to find himself detesting her at once.  
  
“Palis,” gasped Bashir.  
  
***  
  
Half an hour later, Garak was wishing fervently that he had just gone to bed.  
  
Palis Delon, as it turned out, was Bashir’s ex-fiancée-from-seven-years-ago, who’d just arrived on the station on her way to Bajor, where she was to stay for two months performing as a dancer in the newly rebuilt Jalanda Forum.  
  
She was also absolutely insistent that Garak come along to have a drink with them, because she wanted to “meet Julian’s friends”. Garak was so confused by his instinctive strong reaction to her that he couldn’t think up a good excuse, and he thought the doctor gave him a pleading ‘don’t leave me alone with her’ look.  
  
“And Benoit, he always used to hate Garance,” Palis was saying, “I think it’s because he thought she –”  
  
“– ate his dog,” Bashir finished for her, and they both burst out laughing.  
  
Garak, forcing himself to smile, mused that there was possibly nothing more annoying in the universe than a couple who finished each other’s sentences.  
  
“Anyway, sorry, Garak, we’re boring you with old anecdotes,” said Palis. “Tell us about yourself.”  
  
“Oh now, there’s a challenge,” Bashir laughed. “I’ve been trying to get something out of him for years now, and I’m still no wiser.”  
  
“I think wisdom lies a little beyond your years, doctor,” retorted Garak, and Bashir smiled, while Palis laughed.  
  
“Oh, so this is some sort of older-brother-younger-brother relationship, is it?” she asked Bashir. “Julian has always liked having older friends. I guess it’s the father figure thing.”  
  
Ouch.  
  
Bashir shot him an apologetic look while Garak winced inwardly. She was as good as Bashir at putting her foot in her mouth. (Not an unimportant skill for a dancer, he thought, filing the remark away for possible later use.)  
  
“I flatter myself I have made a modest contribution to his education,” he said, giving a little bow, and saw Bashir flashing him a grateful smile. Wonderful. So he had now been reduced to humouring the doctor’s ex-fiancée while she made gaffes at his expense. Time to retire like a good father figure.  
  
“Well, I am afraid I must leave you now. I am rather tired. But I hope you enjoy yourself on the station, and do come by my shop if you need any gowns for your performance.” He bowed in Palis’ direction, gave Bashir a quick glance, and left.  
  
***  
  
If anyone had been watching Garak that evening in his quarters (and he was never entirely sure that Constable Odo didn’t watch him occasionally) they would have been a little perplexed. He kept pacing up and down, then stopping abruptly, nodding to himself; then pacing again, then chuckling; then pacing, then shaking his head. Once or twice he even buried a hand in his hair, and it looked like he was trying to tear some of it out.  
  
“Really, Elim?” he said to himself after a while. “After all this time?”  
  
It appeared that yes, after all this time. And he was really getting old, because how had he failed to notice a) that time that Doctor Bashir had been replaced by a Changeling, b) Doctor Bashir’s genetic enhancements, c) his own heart falling into the abyss again?  
  
Five years ago, he’d had to retrieve it from down there. He had sworn to himself that nothing like that would ever happen to him again. And now this? A young Starfleet doctor who’d befriended him, who’d shown him kindness, who’d insinuated a little more off and on, but perhaps it had just been a pastime, surely he hadn’t meant it, because surely right now he was –  
  
Garak clenched his fists. Jealousy. It was such a base emotion. No-one as sophisticated as him should fall prey to it.  
  
***  
  
For two days, he saw neither hide nor hair of the doctor. He avoided walking past the infirmary or anywhere near Quark’s. And the doctor didn’t contact him, either. That was all for the better, he told himself. Enough of this childish fancy. As if there were any possible way that this could have worked.  
  
On the morning of the third day, the doctor came to his shop. Garak briefly considered making up an excuse as to why he couldn’t talk to him now, then realized that that was childish too.  
  
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” said Bashir, looking rather uncomfortable with his hands behind his back. “I’ve been catching up with Palis. We hadn’t seen each other for so long, and I… kind of ran away back then.”  
  
“Don’t worry, doctor, I guessed as much.” Garak was pleased to discover that he could still find his old cool, pretend he hadn’t noticed, or cared. “I take it she forgives you for running?” Not that he particularly wanted to hear more about this woman, but he had to assess the situation. Yes. Stay pragmatic.  
  
“Yes,” replied Bashir, brightening up considerably. “She understands much better why I ran, now that she knows… well, about me.”  
  
Ah. So she’d heard that Bashir was a superhuman and therefore a good catch.  
  
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”  
  
Unfortunately, the doctor’s fidgeting seemed to indicate that he wasn’t done yet. Garak thought the point may come very soon when he would either start laughing hysterically, or slap Bashir.  
  
“I guess I’m going to try and spend some time with her, see how we get along,” said Bashir. “I mean, it’s always weird to try and rekindle old… I don’t know, could be a bad idea. What do you think?”  
  
What he thought would best be left unsaid, but Garak had a lot of practice in that.  
  
“I think it is up to you to decide,” he said evenly. “You certainly looked like you felt very comfortable in her company.”  
  
Bashir gazed at him for a moment. He looked confused, and like he wanted to ask more. Garak knew he wouldn’t be able to bear much more of this. He had to make himself clear.  
  
Then it occurred to him. It was actually too good to pass on.  
  
“There is an old Cardassian saying. _The sapling can never be removed from the soil in which it grew into a tree._ “  
  
Bashir frowned at him for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, and after they’d made their next lunch appointment, the doctor left the tailor’s shop.  
  
Garak gripped the tabletop and exhaled slowly.  
  
  
***  
  
The next morning, Bashir was back in Garak’s shop.  
  
“Okay,” he said without preamble as he walked in. “You win this round.”  
  
“This round?” asked Garak, feigning innocence, as an ember inside his chest slowly turned into a small flame.  
  
“I thought it sounded odd, for a ‘saying’,” mused Bashir, resting his hip against the table Garak was working on. “So I looked it up. Is it actually a saying, or just a quote?”  
  
Garak smiled, not looking up from the skirt he was hemming. “Originally a quote, I think. Widely used as an idiom now.”  
  
Bashir nodded slowly. “Never knew Palis was a Cardassian name, too.”  
  
“Yes, fitting, I thought.” He had to stay calm. After all, the quote had nothing short of slipped out last night. He hadn’t really thought about it, and he’d berated himself for it afterwards. Then he’d thought that Bashir wasn’t going to get it anyway – but it appeared that he had a tendency to underestimate the doctor.  
  
“So,” Bashir said relentlessly. “You quoted _The Tree That Grew In The Yard_ at me why exactly?”  
  
Garak shot him a look as if to say ‘Like I’d just tell you’, and Bashir rolled his eyes.  
  
“Okay, let’s see. Doran and Palis have one of those incomprehensible Cardassian love-hate relationships. Then Palis finds her husband again, who she thought died in the war, and goes back to him even though she loves him no more than he loves her. And she goes back to him after Doran says what you said to me last night.”  
  
“An excellent, if profoundly human synopsis,” commented Garak.  
  
Bashir had started pacing up and down, and he was silent for a moment. Then he said, sounding slightly amused, “It’s that sacrifice thing again, isn’t it?”  
  
“That ‘sacrifice thing’?” It wasn’t hard to make his voice sound like he was annoyed with the doctor for over-simplifying.  
  
Bashir nodded. “All the novels you’ve ever made me read boil down to it. Sacrifice for the state, sacrifice for the family, sacrifice for old traditional values.”  
  
“However ridiculous the concept may seem to you, doctor, it is an important one to Cardassians.”  
  
“Important enough to ignore one’s own wishes and possibly destroy one’s own hope of happiness?” Bashir said, folding his arms.  
  
“That, doctor,” and Garak could feel his frustration overcome his wretchedness, “is exactly what sacrifice is about.”  
  
Bashir shook his head, looking unconvinced. “But the thing about Doran’s sacrifice,” he said, “is that it’s actually really selfish. He just can’t be bothered to make an effort to tell Palis how he really feels about her.”  
  
“Selfish!” Garak actually dropped his tools and took a few steps back in indignation. “Selfish, when he leaves the country he was born in, so she won’t ever have to see him again! Selfish, when he’s only thinking of her own good and her reputation!”  
  
“Selfish,” retorted Bashir, “because he’s scared of committing to her entirely and giving up his security. Selfish, because he uses the oh-so-important traditional Cardassian values as a pretext to protect himself from further injury!”  
  
“Doctor, I believe you are the single most infuriating person I have ever met.”  
  
“Am I?” A flicker of amused pleasure in Bashir’s eyes, a slight crease around his eyes as though he was about to laugh, and that was it, Garak was done for.  
  
“Are you,” he growled and took a full step forward, so that they stood only inches apart.  
  
He could feel the heat radiating off Bashir’s body and see the laughter lines around his mouth and eyes, as well as the shadows of worry lines on his front. He felt his own heart beating much too fast. How had he gotten himself into this?  
  
“Bad news,” said Bashir, his voice so low that Garak could barely catch the words. “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me.”  
  
“I’m a Cardassian,” muttered Garak. “It’s what I do.”  
  
They inched imperceptibly closer, and Garak was thinking, _‘I might as well lose my last shred of dignity,’_ when the door opened.  
  
Palis stood in the doorway, a dress in her hands.  
  
***  
  
It had all gone very quickly after that, Garak reflected as he lay in bed that night – alone, as usual. He and Bashir had moved away from each other, Bashir had excused himself and fled, and Garak had hemmed Palis’ dress as though nothing had happened.  
  
She had given him a few odd looks, and had almost looked as though she wanted to say something before she left, but in the end they had exchanged no more than ten words.  
  
And who knew where she was now, and whom with.  
  
God, this was insufferable. It was time he recalled old Obsidian Order techniques, Garak thought, and rebuilt the walls around his heart. It hadn’t worked last time, but there was always hope it would now.  
  
The door chimed.  
  
Garak sat up and checked the time – it was past two a.m. Far too late for anyone his age to be up, and far too late for anyone to visit.  
  
If only his heart would listen to that and stop jumping up and down in his ribcage. Ridiculous.  
  
Pulling on a dressing-gown, he went to open the door.  
  
It was Julian Bashir, not in a dressing-gown or in his pyjamas, but in informal clothes that looked distractingly well on him.  
  
“Hi. Can I come in?”  
  
“If you must,” Garak heard himself say and watched himself leading the way over to the two armchairs in the corner.  
  
They sat there for a long moment without speaking. Then the doctor cleared his throat.  
  
“So as you can see, I am not with Palis.”  
  
Garak, although slightly unnerved that the doctor had now taken to reading his mind, had to smile. “So it appears.”  
  
“And I’m not planning to, either.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Bashir emitted what could only be described as a frustrated growl. “ _Some_ indication as to whether you’re pleased about that, or just indifferent, would be much appreciated.”  
  
Garak breathed slowly and deliberately, trying to calm his heartbeat. He stood up and walked over to the window, looking out at the stars. Indifferent they may look, cold, uncaring – but everyone knew how they burned they closer you got.  
  
“Remaining indifferent,” he said at last, still looking out at the stars. “That was one of the things I learned early on.”  
  
“In the Obsidian Order?”  
  
“Yes. Well, even before that. Tain was never much of a father, and at some point I realized that if I kept getting my hopes up… well, he would always disappoint me.”  
  
He could hear Bashir getting up and approaching him, but he didn’t turn around. The doctor stood next to him, and they both looked out at the ‘infinity of possibilities’, as Garak believed some trivial 22nd century Earth poet had once described space. Well, they weren’t completely stupid, those poets.  
  
“And later, in the Order,” he continued, “that was chiefly what helped me become Tain’s right-hand man. It wasn’t enough, you see, to dislike or hate our enemies. You had to be utterly indifferent to them, otherwise your mind was never fully clear.”  
  
He stopped to gather his thoughts. Bashir didn’t interject; he just listened. That was one of the many brilliant things about him, Garak thought – he could babble like an over-excited teenager, and he could be silent when he had to.  
  
“Then one day, I stopped being indifferent. There was a woman I was supposed to remove for Tain. A Romulan, an attachée in the foreign office on Romulus.” Garak smiled. “She was beautiful. And smart, and lively, and she had the best grasp of the concept of irony that I’ve ever seen from a non-Cardassian.” He paused, half for effect. “I couldn’t make myself do it. All my Order discipline, all of Tain’s teachings just evaporated. So I helped her disappear instead.”  
  
Bashir didn’t say anything for a long time, so Garak allowed himself to steal a glance at the doctor.  
  
The look Bashir gave him was one of amused understanding.  
  
“One of your better stories, I’d say.”  
  
And there it was again, just like earlier in the shop, that sense of absolute clarity. This was it.  
  
Garak moved closer to Bashir, who was staring at him expectantly, invitingly. He lifted a hand to cup the doctor’s face and slowly stroked his thumb over the other man’s cheekbone.  
  
“Aren’t you worried about your reputation?” he muttered at length. “I’m not going to improve your standing with the Federation, you know.”  
  
Bashir smiled, lifting a hand to Garak’s face in turn. “I think I’m a little past the point of worrying about that.”  
  
Their kiss, perfect in its awkward breathlessness, seemed to last for hours.  
  
As he drew back, Julian gave him a smile so brilliant that Garak wondered how he could ever have thought that Palis had a chance.  
  
***


End file.
